Freiheit Ouvertüre
by Deltra 307
Summary: Everything before this moment means nothing: the moment he first hears the name Doctor X. – collection of Operation: Mindcrime one-shots
**PROMPT;;** Injured.

 **UNIVERSE;;** Implied canon, somewhere around the time of Speak.

 **CHARACTERS;;** Nikki, Doctor X.

 **PAIRINGS;;** None.

 **NOTES;;** Fair warning: you are trekking dangerously through head canon land. If you and I are being honest with each other, expect every one-shot after this in self-proclaimed "canon" to be primarily comprised of what has been solidified in my mind as canon due to _way_ too many nights spent thinking over these dumb rock operas and roleplaying as not only Nikki, but also as Doctor X on more than one play-by-post writing forum. Nikki may look fine in Video: Mindcrime, but he'll always be as ugly as the blob fish to me. TuT

Anywho, this "lovely" one-shot - and by lovely, I mean a disgusting bi-product of a story I started off on one way, changed the direction entirely halfway through, but never bothered to iron out once it was done - is the start of what will hopefully be many one-shots to come. Prompts are from Prin Pardus' 100 One-Shot Challenge (and believe me, I'm shooting for the unreasonable one hundred as we speak), and it attempt to follow her rules. At least, up until word count comes in. Miiiiight take a few liberties there. This, like the Five Stages of Grief story that has come before it, is already progressed further than this lonely (and poorly written) piece by itself, but updates will still be posted... well, whenever I remember to get around to it. Mostly to allow myself extra time to catch up if I find myself particularly stumped or simply unable to write for a certain prompt, partly because schedules tend to make keeping up with them harder than playing it by the seat of my pants. That being said, enjoy the wait between this and prompt two, **Drowning**! Believe me - it's a _huge_ improvement on this one already.

* * *

Red welts from wounds like tears bubble from eyes: thick, wet, and every bit as annoying as it is painful. He'll never admit to the latter being true, though, because real men don't cry at pain, and even if he's still "boy" instead of "young man" or, _heaven forbid_ , his own actual name, if one wants to be treated like one, he'd better start acting like one. Red welts like tears, but he tells himself that red welts like nothing but itself. Battle scars are for warriors, crying for the weak; the blood won't stop flowing from the gouge in his arm, but if he tells himself that it's nothing more than a kitten scratch and the moisture dripping down his face is sweat from the heat of another job well done, he'll be able to meet his idol with at least the tiniest shred of decency. It's a crime enough that he is nothing more than a street rat before a god. If he's going to push his way through those doors splattering crimson in every which way like the walls are his modern-day splatter painting canvas, he might as well do so unbothered.

The man at his feet certainly doesn't look that way, though, all open-mouthed and glassy eyed. There's still an imprint of fingers dipped into the sides of his neck, white against angry scarlet but set to turn blue with the passing of hours. The struggle his killer had gone through to get the job done is evident in bloodied knuckles and a broken nose. The comical expression of shock and disgust is nothing more than mint frosting on a beaten, bloodied cake, and compared to the single streak of pain across the living male's arm, one could have easily mistaken the former-politician as a voluntary punching bag. When the police arrived – and, believe him, it wasn't a matter of "if" but "when" - they'd probably imagine it to be some sort of personal vendetta, what with how violent the act was carried out. The criminal mind had already done his part to clean up any possible traces of DNA on the victim and crime scene around them, though, and there was nothing personal about the act that he'd just carried out. There never is.

Nikki takes the piece of cloth he'd ripped from the stranger's shirt and uses it as a temporary bandage for his gushing arm, flinching as he applies pressure, but definitely not _weeping_ over it.

Doctor X will be none too pleased when he steps into the base of operations with a fresh wound, he knows. Stealth is the game they play, and any sign of a fight means that he has failed to be unseen. Physical conflict could also lead to witnesses, whether just by sound or by sight, and the last time something like this had happened, Mindcrime had been under threat of being discovered. But as sure as he knows his employer will be upset, he knows he will also be forgiving. He learns best through mistakes, and what would have been a fatal slip up gave him the knowledge he needed to clean up the mess he has just made. Every base has been covered, every flat surface scrubbed clean, and it won't be long until the initial error is disregarded in favor of the desired results.

The blond has finished tying the knot on his makeshift bandage when there's a tap at the door. More than one, though – a rapid fire knock that his him bolting upright, the pistol just picked up by his right hand almost clattering to the floor once more. Someone who had heard the commotion, perhaps? An angry neighbor wondering what all of the bumps and crashes had been? Or maybe it was a friend or partner, or maybe even a family member? Whoever the stranger beyond the door is, he or she is of no concern to him. The front door is blocked by his or her presence, but realistically, that would not have been the smartest method of escape. He instead trains his eye on the window he'd slipped in through; from there, all he has to do is slip on his gloves, squeeze out the opening, and close it as if nothing had ever happened.

Less then a five minutes have passed him by before his tattered sneakers have hit the pavement of the streets, window crawled through and wall scaled with as much ease as a clunky man hardly out of high school can muster. Of all those clunky men hardly out of high school, though, he likens himself to be the best – he's been taught well, and even jumping from the height he did produced little noise and little pain. Little pain, at least, compared to the screams of agony that have been erupting from his arm since his decent down the apartment building. He won't let it get the better of him, though, because that is what any other person fitting his profile will do, and if he wants to impress his boss while simultaneously saving the whole city and everyone in it, he's got to be exactly what everyone else thinks he can't be.

This thought pumps enthusiasm through his veins, and before the hit-man knows what's happening, his feet are carrying him in a direction quite opposite of that to his own humble home.

They lead him, instead, to the front door of the operation's base. It's just the sort of place one would expect the Doctor to call his office, as well – humble enough from the outside to be overlooked by the masses, but in a neighborhood not littered with the scum that roam the streets. Whether they be junkies, like his highest hit-man before the boy had found meaning in madness with the revolution, or the rich really depended on his mood. Neither were welcome, unless the former were willing to put down their needles long enough to help push for world-wide reform. This was, sadly, rare. As such, the further from both ends of the spectrum they could place themselves, the better, and the old, well-maintained warehouse was just the perfect spot.

Nikki's knuckles rap against the door to his special rhythm, the word "mindcrime" tumbling from his lips to indicate his arrival and request for entry. He knows from experience that the wait is caused by them visually scanning him over from indoors. Someone could feign his appearance, or they could figure out the duel passwords, but the chances of both occurring were quite slim and what had ultimately kept their base free of anyone who wasn't supposed to be there. The necessity doesn't make the wait any more bearable, though. Impatience comes down to an art with him; even the fifteen seconds it takes for them to solidify that fact this the boy in the trench coat is _Nikki_ and not an imposter feels like it's own small eternity, and he's already kicking up dirty on the pavement when their slide open the door for his entry. "Sorry, boy," the guard says, bass voice paired with a quiet volume making it hard to hear what's being spoken to him. "Boy," he'd said. It's always " _boy_ ". Someday he'd be more than just a child to these men – they may have a decade's lead on him at least, but he will prove to them all that he can do more than any _boy_ can. "Didn't expect to see you around so late. Shouldn't you be headed home?"

The hit-man brushes past him without so much as a word, but the motion draws attention to the white-turned-red cloth tied around his forearm. He flinches at the arm that shoots out and catches him by the shoulder. Turns to glare into eyes filled with a mixture of confusion, anger, and, worst of all, disappointment. "You didn't have that when you left earlier." It's not a question. There is no "oh, has that been there all morning?" running through the older male's mind. His words ring of accusation, and the only question hanging in the air is: Did you mess up again? Something about that lights an angry fire in the pit of his stomach. It's one thing to be judged by Doctor X – fair, perfect Doctor X who has the right to judge every piece of filth the world has to offer – but to be stared down by the entry way's _guard_ of all people is not something he will stand for.

He wretches his shoulder away and turns completely away, blue eyes focused on the wood flooring of the hallway stretched out before him. "Is the Doctor in?" he asks, not even deigning to provide the earlier remark with a response. Puffs of annoyance follow after a moment's hesitation, and a whole ten seconds pass in white noise before he gets his answer.

"He's not gonna be happy, seeing you like that."

"Whatever. He'll get over it."

The snide comeback earned him an inhale of disbelief – you'd think they'd learn with time – but he's already on his way to the aforementioned "he" before a proper response can be given by his guard "friend". Everyone is shocked by his outward rudeness toward what the Doctor says, does, and stands for, but both he and his boss know that the words are far from genuine. He is the most loyal of pawns, and anything crude that tumbles out of his mouth about the operation is for shock factor only. And maybe he likes it better when they _don't_ learn; the way they fumble like fish on land when he casually insults or mocks everything they all put on a pedestal goes beyond hilarious. Just thinking about that _stupid noise_ from just moments earlier has the tiniest of smirks playing with his face when he pushes open the double doors of the whole warehouse's most important room. He wipes it off immediately, though, in the presence of his idol. Such childish expressions will not be held in the presence of a man truly fit to be called a man.

Perhaps it's the way he swings the doors open so fast, so hard that they hit against the walls that signals _his_ entry, and no one else's; maybe it's the weight of his footsteps as he moves closer inside; maybe it's the smell of smoke on his breath or his clothes; maybe his employer can boast eyes in more places than his down-turned head. Whatever the reason is doesn't really matter in the end, though. What matters is that his presence is known before the demagogue even looks up to see his face. "I'm surprised you're back, Nikki," X begins, adjusting the glasses on the bridge of his nose as he continues reading through an article on his desk. There are more like it stacked around his desk, each one folded neatly and more organized than he, himself, could ever achieve. Just how many different newspapers are lined up to read this late in the night? "Did you not complete tonight's mission?"

"He's dead," Nikki says. The hand attached to his uninjured arm plays with his ruined bandage as if a silent cry for attention. If there's to be talk of his careless injury, he doesn't want to be the one to have to bring it up. "There was... a little bump, but he's dead."

A sigh falls from the Doctor's lips, but he still doesn't look up. "You were caught in the act, then. He didn't struggle too much, I hope?"

"Uh."

There's a missed beat in there, less then a second's worth of absolute _nothingness_. No sound, no movement, no thoughts tumbling through his head. And then it happens. Slowly, agonizingly so, reading glasses are removed, folded, and set precariously next to the abandoned paper and chocolate eyes move to fix their gaze on ripped sleeves and bloodied material. The blond sucks in his breath, holding it as the other male stares in passive silence as if he were waiting for it to jump out at him. By the time something changes, he's running out of breath; it's with a single eyebrow raised that brown locks on blue and the question about to be asked rings in the air before it's even spoken. "That doesn't look pleasant. This didn't hinder your ability to slip away unnoticed, did it?"

Too quickly does he answer, "No!"

Curious eyes calculate him as his idol leans back in his chair. By now, the second eyebrow has raised to meet its mirror closer to his hairline and the silence dictates he continues. A cough. Then words. "I-I mean, no, sir. He fought and made a scene, but no one saw. I cleaned up the whole place, too; no DNA traces, no _nothin_ '." He swallows the rock that has lodged itself in his throat and explains, "I came here to make sure you knew that. Didn't want you to find out from someone who had their facts wrong."

X regards him in silence, expression not quite as wondering as before, but still anything but gentle. The hit-man can't possibly fathom what goes on inside the educated mind behind Operation: Mindcrime – he was never very good at reading people, but even if he had been, he figures the man would still be a complete enigma to him – and the fact that the clock on the wall has ticked as many times as it has between words begins to have doubt bubbling inside him. Is he not forgiven? He'd cleaned the crime scene, but maybe he was still in trouble for having to clean up the scene in the first place. He's about to open his mouth once more to question this, in fact, when the silence is broken by the sound of the chair creaking into place The Doctor has leaned forward again, and at last, muddy hues fall back to their default expression. No anger, no disappointment. He is in the clear.

"Very well, then. Thank you for coming to me first." The blue-eyed male nods then, joy bubbling in his core at a bullet well dodged. He wasn't sure what he was going to do should his boss grow upset with him; the idea of "mindcrime" being whispered to him and his jobs being carried out against his will was a result he both feared and had come to accept as likely punishment. If he had failed to clean up after himself, that was probably what would have waited for him. Fears are shoved away, though, in the back of his head where they cannot bother him. It's all for the good of mankind in the end, after all, and he's no reason to cower while still in the audience of the Doctor. The last words to fall between them sound like closing remarks, and taking them as such, he moves in preparation to leave – stops only when more words are being tossed his way. "Oh, and... make sure you have that injury inspected before you retire for the night."

He furrows his brow. He doesn't mean to, but it happens. Does the chess master have so little faith in his pawn? "I've had worse," he says, although that's not quite true. This is easily on tier with some of his more painful wounds. Doubt, however, in his abilities is not something he wants from his employer. "It won't get in the way of any of my missions."

"Who said it was the missions I was concerned about?"

Nikki freezes then. Freezes in his spot, turned slightly away from the desk parallel to the door and stares at the indifferent face of the mysterious Doctor X. He is not smart, but one does not have to be an honor role student to understand the implications of those sentences. If it is not the missions he is concerned about, it is the one carrying them out, and while something about that has him dumbfounded for more time than he'd like to admit to, something else about that has the slightest traces of a smile pulling at his lips. He cares. The Doctor cares. _Someone cares_.

"That is all," he concludes, reapplying his reading glasses and nodding toward the door in a silent request that he leave. "Do have a pleasant evening, Nikki."

Not a second is wasted. He is out of the room, door slammed behind him and mind racing to the prestissimo beat of his heart.

He had not been prepared for that.

He loses himself in the maze that is the inside of the base of operations, feet guiding him on a path he's only half aware exists while he mind occupies itself on his memories. The turn into the operation's personal doctor's office is almost missed in such a daze, and even as the man in white pokes and prods at the gash on his upper arm, all he can focus on is this _feeling_. This feeling of being wanted, _needed_ for the cause. Of someone caring for his well being.

Nikki is sent home with a proper bandage on his arm – no stitches required – and, as he curls into the imagined warmth of a white block devoid of anything but a bed, a chair, and his thoughts, he whispers out into the night:

"G'night, Doctor."

* * *

 **I think we can all agree that that was a less-than-spectacular piece of writing, but honestly, I can't quite bring myself to care enough to change it. (The curse of being a lazy perfectionist.) I started writing this with the intent to play on the fact that Nikki's only ever really referred to by the Doctor as "boy," save for the one line where he calls him by name, and a few other related ideas. Around the time I was writing this, though, I'd just started to entertain the idea that DX would try to sort of worm his way in as a father figure, and - well, guess what turn this one-shot took! Man, though, look at all of these other silly head canons. The whole "mind control" thing could just as easily exist as it could _not_ exist, but it's always better to assume that I accept it as canon (although I'm not one hundred percent sure it's something Nikki actively knows about as he does here; _that's_ subject to change). Also, get ready for more Nikki!trench coat shenanigans. He loves that trench coat. *sheds single tear***

 **That's really all there is to say on the matter, though. I could make a comment on the many, many errors, but the reality of the situation is that I'll probably never proofread something I've written, and who on this site is going to beta read Operation: Mindcrime, much less _read_ it? *laughs with salad* Really, all that's left to do is send you off on your way and hope you stick around for future prompts (and angst - so much angst). Happy reading. =w=b**


End file.
